


Une Liaison Dangereuse

by BadassIndustries



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A Rococo Romance, Alternate Universe - 1700s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bahorel Pov, F/M, Fantine Pov, General Tholomyès warning, Written for Rarepairweek 2018, baby cosette, humour and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-06-10 06:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/pseuds/BadassIndustries
Summary: Felix Tholomyès, like any self-satisfied 18th century gentleman, thinks it only natural he hides his mistress away at his hunting lodge. Bahorel, who stumbles upon Fantine and her adorable daughter on his way home to see his family, disagrees entirely. He thinks Fantine should be free to make friends and enjoy herself, preferably far away from Tholomyès. Fantine just wants a safe place for her daughter to grow up and make friends. Cosette just wants to find worms with the chickens...A mid-1700s adventure of wigs, silk dresses, respectful friendships and daring flights to freedomWritten for Rare Pair Week 2018





	1. Mornings, Chickens and Undeserving Men

Monsieur _Mort-Aux-Injustice_ Bahorel re-folded the note he had just been given and handed the young messenger a coin. This was a rotten piece of luck, but probably what he deserved for returning home instead of staying in Paris while his fellow students lived it up in the capital. But after the term ended, Bahorel found he quite missed his parents and his siblings, and even his horde of perpetually underfoot cousins. And now to be prevented to see them, in the middle of his journey, by something as paltry as smallpox? It shouldn’t be allowed.

His mother had send a farmhand with a note that unless he, unlike her, could remember a time he had been inflicted with the dreadful disease, he had better return as all his cousins were laid low. Bahorel, always a hardy child, did not recall ever having been so spotty, so he had better turn back. Or he would, but he had installed a friend in his rooms in Paris and could not possibly oust the poor fellow within a week of the promise of a place to stay for a month. He’d prefer to travel on and visit his sole older sister, who had allowed a merchant dealing in carriages to marry her and was living less than a day’s ride away in domestic bliss with her child and her circle of no longer illiterate servant-girls. He looked from his horse to the setting sun and decided he best follow his messenger’s unasked for advice to take his mutton at the inn he passed a half-hour ago.

He could take a room at the inn, allow his horse a night’s rest and send his sister a letter enquiring if she was at home to her dearest annoying little brother. Finding her not at home was a real danger, because one of her demands before she accepted her husband’s proposal was that at frequent intervals he take one of his many carriages and whisk her away to a more exotic locale. Since Bahorel’s sister was as beautiful as she was clever and demanding, her fiancé had agreed immediately.

Bahorel found the ‘Four Fools’, the local inn, just before dark and charmed the innkeeper’s wife into providing him with some sustenance in his room. Letter written and added to the morning’s post, he found himself completely at a loss for any activity. Feeling ridiculously well-regulated and resolving to have an Adventure soon to make up for it, he went to bed at the good country hour of 10 pm.

~*~

To Bahorel’s surprise, he found himself wide awake and well-rested before the sun was fully up. It had been may months since he had seen sunrise without the satisfied daze of a night well-spent and a longing for his bed. Since his breakfast still needed some time, he decided to venture outside for a bracing walk. So as not to frighten any good honest farmers, he donned a more sedate waistcoat, begged an apple off the cook, and set off.

Fresh morning air did not provide entertainment for very long, so Bahorel soon found himself drawn to the only sound not made by chirping birds. From quite far off, he could hear the happy babbling of a child. A while closer, which sadly necessitated the forcing of an old gate, he could hear the squawks of chickens in reply to the child’s chatter. Bahorel, who was feeling sadly deprived of the opportunity to spoil and tease his young nieces and nephews, perked up considerably. If he could not have an adventure before breakfast he might at least have the delight that is an earnest conversation with a young child.

The scene he stumbled upon was very charming indeed. The babbling originated from a pretty plump child of four or five years. Her gown was silk and delicately embroidered, with matching lace woven through her brown hair. She looked like a little angel, with rosy cheeks and a dress worthy of Louis’ Court. She was hunched on her knees in the dirt, a crooked stick in her hand to compete with the chickens to find the first worms. The little girl looked up at Bahorel’s chuckle, eyes opening wide in surprise. Not wanting to frighten her, Bahorel immediately took off his hat and swirled his riding cape in his most dramatically gallant bow, before replacing the tricorn on his head with a rakish angle. He was just about to start up an inquiry as to the success of the hunt when a real, grown-up angel ran up to them.

“Cosette!” the angel cried, taking up the girl and embracing her lovingly. “You’ll spoil your gown, my little Euphrasie, playing in the dirt like that.”

As soon as her feet retouched the floor, Cosette – or Euphrasie – hid her stick behind her back and looked up innocently, as if that would hide the dust layering on her pretty blue silk skirts.

“I was only playing a little bit, Maman. And I had to, really, because Hélène-Marie was hungry and Victor did not want to share.”

With a small hand, lace trailing down from the cuffs of her dress, she gestured to the chickens, none of which looked particularly ill-fed or like they were likely to be named Victor. Cosette’s Maman produced a child-sized apron from her panniers. She was dressed in the exact same manner as her daughter, though the lace in her blond hair gave her a perfect halo. She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Bahorel had ever seen. Had he not seen her with her daughter, he would have called her the most beautiful girl in the world, and fallen in love with her instantly.

Bahorel reached for his hat to once again make his dramatic bow, but instead he found himself approaching her in a more serious, cautious manner.

“Madame, I apologise for the intrusion, but my walk has seemed to led me to wander unto your grounds and the sounds of your daughter made me think I had better ask for directions instead of wandering further.”

Something about the angel’s soft, serious face made Bahorel want to be honest with her, but admitting to forcing her gate in search of adventure would hardly win him her approval. She gave him a polite smile and indicated a direction to walk in.

“That way will lead you back to the inn, if that is where you need to go. But mind you don’t stray to far east, Monsieur, because the Seigneur our neighbour likes to shoot at any strangers on his domain.”

Being shot for trespassing was not quite the kind of adventure Bahorel had in mind. Especially not when there were small girls to entertain and their Mamas to amuse with silly stories.

“I hate to impose upon you more, but could you perhaps walk with me a little while? I am not very keen on getting shot and I have a notoriously bad sense of direction.”

This was nearly true. Bahorel’s sense of direction was indeed notorious, mostly because it invariably led him to places that could be aptly described as ‘bad’. Or perhaps that was only his personal inclination. Life could not be lived by staying safely next to the fire. The little girl looked ready to show any brightly dressed stranger the way through the forest, but her mother still looked dubious.

“Of course I could not ask you to lend your protection to a stranger. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bahorel, gallant traveller sadly prevented from seeing my family by an attack of that heinous killjoy they call smallpox. I have travelled all this way from Paris to see them, only to be turned away at the last moment.”

“Oh, you hail from Paris?” Her angelic face lit up in animation, making it a thousand times more beautiful still. “I was from Paris. Before. My name is Fantine. If you can tell me news from Paris, I will gladly show you the way back.”

She extended her hand to him and with greater self-control than Bahorel had exhibited all year, he merely bowed over it, instead of pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

He readily talked of Paris while wandering back, Cosette running ahead of them, only returning to present her mother with a leaf, or an ant she had found. They spoke of commonplaces, but every mention of a place she had known made Fantine light up. She started to talk a little too, mentioning places she lived and places she visited. To Bahorel’s surprise she spoke of common markets and worker’s neighbourhoods, not the grand places one would expect a lady clad in silk to know. Through it all shone a longing for a place where she had been happy. To Bahorel, Fantine seemed lonely.

~*~

When the first house of the villages had come in sight, Fantine had taken her leave and turned back. Bahorel was very sorry to see her go, but grateful enough he had managed to coax passionate conversation out of her. She seemed rather timid and reserved, except when talking of her daughter and the life they had in Paris, when her shyness melted away. When he joined the innkeeper and the other guest in the dining room for his breakfast, he decided to casually see if the innkeeper’s wife could tell him more about the angelic Fantine and her cherub of a daughter. If there was one thing one could depend on after all, it was small-town gossip. The innkeeper’s wife was a veritable fountain of information, though not all of it pertinent.

“There’s good sorts that live around here, none of your fancy nobles, just good honest people. And the old Seigneur who nobody has called honest in his life. Terrified of poachers, he is. And then there’s that Parisian fellow, whose family owns the hunting lodge not an hours walk from here. That Parisian is no good, I can tell you that. He installed his mistress in the hunting lodge, pretty as you please. Not that I’ll hear a word spoken against that poor lamb. Silly girl thinks he’ll marry her. And her baby girl is as pretty as a rose, and so well behaved too. Not that you’d know it, from that lout of a father ignoring her existence. It’s a pity she’s a bastard because surely she’ll grow up to become a famous beauty.”

She went on to detail the coming and going of every family in the village, some of which was very amusing, but none of which told him more about the beautiful Fantine. Bahorel felt the familiar edge of outrage at the thought of having the love of a girl like Fantine and then leaving her here hidden away in some paltry hunting lodge. What failure of a man could father a child like Cosette and leave her behind? If Fantine had been merely beautiful, he might have understood the need to hide her away. But there was something more to her, something that ought to be free and not kept hidden. Bahorel was certainly not against the concepts of taking mistresses, but only a man of very poor character would string a woman along with promises of marriage. Bahorel new nearly nothing of Cosette’s father, but he was already predisposed to dislike him very much. If Fantine had not had Cosette to look after, he would have tried to charm her into running away with him. If a man left a woman that wonderful to languish alone among strangers, he did not deserve her. But Cosette must be Fantine’s first priority. One did not trifle with mothers. But Fantine did seem lonely. She spoke of friends, but only in the past. He suspected she did not even receive letters. This would not do. If he could not entice her into leaving this place with him, he could at least offer her his friendship.

Over the course of an extended breakfast he decided that since he could not expect a reply from his sister until the next morning, he might as well call on Madame Fantine to express his gratitude for her escort through the perilous wood.


	2. Caramels, Embroidery and a great deal of Cheerful Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel returns after only a few hours absence. Fantine finds she quite likes his cheerful presence around the house. Cosette is beside herself with delight that there's someone new to tell her stories, if only he could stay longer...

The young man from this morning was back. Perhaps he only seemed young to Fantine, because of his boyish smile and full head of hair. Felix always said that a full head of hair meant an empty head. Just as he always said wigs were for the truly dignified. Of course he said it with a clever pun. Fantine could never remember his witty remarks as she ought to.

But his youthful good looks might be why Fantine did not feel discomfited at the young man’s reappearance. Though he carried his sword with him, she did not feel an inkling of fear. Or perhaps fear was merely made impossibly by the silly faces he was pulling at Cosette. Without the chickens to make her bold, Cosette had turned a little shy and was peeking out from behind Fantine’s skirts. However Monsieur Bahorel’s faces were making her giggle. When they had walked him back this morning she had even shown some of the treasures she found on their walk to him, so he must be a good man. Cosette was a good judge of character. She had hated the merchant who had come to sell them furs on sight and he turned out to be an odious man. He had offered Fantine riches to run away with him, as long as she’d leave her baby behind. Not since she had left her girlhood behind had Fantine felt such a vivid desire to punch someone.

On the streets of M-sur-M, as a dirty child playing in the open air, Fantine had been famous for her fighting spirit. Now, wearing fine dresses in the house of a gentleman, she could hardly remember that at one time she had run free. Perhaps that was the reason she could not bring herself to scold Cosette for playing in the dirt. Cosette liked the country so much that Fantine occasionally let guilty for thinking longingly of Paris. Maybe when Felix came back to marry her they could live in Paris, but visit here. This was his father’s hunting lodge after all. And the clean air did Cosette so much good. In Paris she had not half so much freedom. And perhaps when Felix’ parents approved the match, they could have a servant more than just the girl form the village who came in to take the washing. Fantine had worked hard all her life, but the lodge was not small and keeping it in order while caring for Cosette wasn’t easy. The kind woman from the inn sometimes sent her daughter with a stew or some kind of treat for Cosette, lightening the burden somewhat. It was a relief that Cosette was such a friendly child, endearing herself to everyone around her.

Even now she approached Monsieur Bahorel, who was still standing on the stoop in front of the door, to show him something she had found. With apprehension Fantine looked at what Cosette was so proudly displaying. In her little fist she held a worm. Again. Fantine hastened to take it away from her and apologise. Gentlemen didn’t like to be bothered by the things that fascinated children. But to her surprise, Monsieur Bahorel laughed a deep happy rumbling sound.

“To display a mind turned to discovery is no fault as I see it,” he said, smiling broadly and winking at Cosette, “If I had a daughter as clever as yours, I would encourage her scientific prowess.”

It seemed Monsieur Bahorel was one of those rare gentleman who truly liked children, and not just the idea of them. He was smiling down at Cosette, until he suddenly seemed to recollect he was still standing upon her doorstep.

“But let me explain why I have once again barged into your home. I have sustained another grave disappointment. I had hoped to visit my sister, but there is no possibility she will be able to receive me earlier than tomorrow day. I am sorely in need for entertainment, or else I will surely go mad. And then I realised I had brought treats for my brothers and sisters which I cannot give them. So I wondered if you might permit me to share them with you both? I thought the lure of caramels might be enough of a bribe to persuade you to give me the pleasure of your company.”

Monsieur Bahorel had a kind face, Fantine thought. His complexion was dark and his figure broad, but his enthusiastic smile made him unintimidating. Fantine found she very much wanted to invite him into the parlour. She could not offer him tea, but perhaps he would not mind. And it had been such a long time since Fantine had had caramels. Felix always says that sugar corrupts the body and the mind. And he would not like it if she invited strange gentlemen into his house. But Felix was not here, and Cosette had already taken Monsieur Bahorel’s large hand in her little one and pulled him through the doorway before Fantine could persuade herself she really ought to refuse.

Before she knew it, they were seated in the sunny parlour and her face hurt from smiling. The caramels were sweet, but sweeter still was the way Cosette bounced in delight, telling a wholly incoherent story about something that had certainly never happened to Bahorel, who was attending seriously and asking earnest questions.

As soon as the first round of sweets had disappeared he looked at Fantine seriously and said that since he had bribed his way into her home, she might as well call him by the name all his friends used, as he sincerely hoped they could become friends. He insisted Fantine ought to keep her ‘Madame’, but Fantine was feeling rather daring with sugar on her lips and told him that being called by her first name reminded her of her childhood. His response was a mischievous smile and laughter he valiantly tried to keep in. Fantine was quite certain it was because he was secretly laughing at her for talking as if her childhood was such a long time ago. At most she could be two years older than him and he was a student still, as he told her in between Cosette’s excited chatter about Victor and Marie-Hélène. A quite reluctant students, as he made the study of the law sound as bad as any hellish horror. In an attempt to change the topic away from the dreaded law, Bahorel made the mistake of inquiring whether Cosette had changed the chickens’ names, as he believed this morning it had been Victor and Hélène-Marie. Cosette looked up in affront.

“Oh no M’sieur, I could not change their names every morning, that would be silly. Hélène-Marie and Marie-Hélène are sisters, you see.”

She scrambled up on the sofa next to Bahorel, so she could better explain the adventure that had landed her chickens which such similar names. It contained a daring swordfight and half of the story Fantine used to tell her before bedtime back in Paris. Halfway through Cosette remembered that before Bahorel had knocked, Fantine had been teaching her how to sew. The story was forgotten in favour of explaining that Cosette was making her own doll out of rags and that the doll would be as pretty as a princess. Bahorel was called upon to determine which scrap of fabric would make for the most fashionable skirt.

He was surprisingly knowledgeable when it came to patterns. Smiling over Cosette’s head at Fantine with mischief shining on his face, he set off on an outrageous story of how he only last month had seen the Comtesse de —   wear exactly that shade of blue and that that particular scrap of ribbon must have been the twin of the one that had adorned a famous soprano’s throat only last week. And so he went on, until half of Cosette’s collection of left-over fabric had been worn by the Dauphine herself. With every new invention, he looked for Fantine’s approval and every time Fantine could not help but laugh in reply. She did not think she had ever met a young man who was so very amiable.

Felix would likely have found a reason to dislike Bahorel though. His bright clothes, perhaps. He did not like it when people were dressed more adventurously than he was. He did like it when Fantine was finely dressed, taking pleasure in it when he pronounced her the prettiest girl in the place. He had brought her this silk gown a few months ago, delighting in his own clever tale of how he had won it in a daring bet. It belonged to a great lady, he said, so she should feel honoured to wear it, especially as she was forever hounding him about new finery.

It had been Cosette, and not Fantine, who was dreadfully in need of a new gown. She was growing so fast and the seams on her gown couldn’t possibly be let out any further. But in the end it did not matter. The silk gown had been a _robe à la française_ , and in the luxurious wings there was enough fabric to dress a young girl. It was a terrible amount of fine work, but Fantine managed to change the flowing gown into a jacket _à la polonaise_. When he visited again, Felix had not noticed that Fantine had made over the gown.

“By the by, Madame Fantine, I have to compliment you on the symbolism on your gown. Your dress is adorned with embroidered roses, but Cosette’s is decorated with rosebuds. It is exquisitely done! I see you smiling at me, thinking ‘what can this young fool possibly know about embroidery’.”

Fantine had not been thinking any such thing. She had been thinking of her friends in Paris who, even if they were not always kind, at least shared Fantine’s delight in delicate embroidery on fine gowns.

“But you would be wrong, Madame Fantine, sorry as I am to say it. I know a great deal about embroidery. Lace, too. Did you know that in Italy there are ladies who can tell entire stories in a bolt of lace? And I can read embroidery just like that. It is one of my more gallant skills, as the ability to shock and enrage people with my wardrobe choices is never very welcome in a salon.”

Fantine admitted with a smile that she had not known that, but also that she doubted he could read her embroidery. He fell down dramatically as if struck mortally by her words.

“Madame, you wound me.  So I must prove myself.”

He jumped up and stood in the middle of the room, with a certain air of showmanship.

“I will prove it to you. I shall, right here and now, demonstrate how I can read embroidery. I will need a volunteer of course.” He said it with a broad grin as if he was speaking to a crowd.

Cosette jumped up in excitement and the very loud wish to be allowed to be the volunteer.

After Fantine nodded her assent behind Cosette’s back, he bowed deeply.

“Mademoiselle Cosette, if you will allow me?”

At Cosette’s enthusiastic approval, Bahorel carefully picked her up by the waist and held her at eye-height. She squealed in delight and kicked her feet excitedly. Bahorel inspected Cosette’s stomacher in great detail, humming and hawing all the while. He took great care to hold her gently, but firm enough that her excited wriggling could not win her a sharp drop to the floor. Examination complete, he gently deposited her back on the sofa.

“As you will see, I have read the entire story. I will now unfold it to you both.”

His manner was very firm and upright and Fantine could suddenly see he had been trained to speak in court. Luckily she already knew not to mention this to him, or the entertainment would soon be replaced by sulking.

“To begin, as I have already pointed out, the border of rosebuds detail how the wearer of this elegant gown will grow up to be a beautiful rose, like her mother.”

This was cheek, plain and simple, and from the look of his face he knew it. But Fantine was reluctant to cut him off, because Cosette looked up at him in admiration, as if he was truly telling her future.

“One returning motif of this piece is the love she who wielded the needle has for she who wears it, of course, but that would be obvious to any fool who looked on it, just as the skill of the stitches must be immediately apparent to anyone not intolerably stupid.”

Fantine tried not to react, but a glow of satisfaction still ran through her. She had been so very proud of that gown, and no one had been around to acknowledge it.

Bahorel went on to explain how the stars and jonquils at the borders meant Cosette would grow up to do great things, make wonderful discoveries and dance with a baron among the stars. Every pronouncement was made with great illustrious movements and big smiles returned on Cosette’s little face. Bahorel too, seemed to have forgotten he was reading her embroidery and not telling Cosette’s future. But it did not matter. Cosette was listening with rapt attention, little hands clasped and stars in her eyes.

They supped on bread and hard cheese, sitting cosily around the kitchen table. Cosette liked gnawing on crusts and was nearly silent during the meal. Fantine found herself filing up the silence by talking of the plays she had seen in Paris. Going to the theatre had been one of her favourite things, before she had Cosette and needed to take care of her at night, or find a friend to stay with her.

Bahorel turned out to be excessively fond of the theatre too, and left his food forgotten on his plate so he could extract her every opinion on everything she had seen and even most she had only ever heard of. He acted as if there had never been anything more riveting than her explanation of why she preferred a certain tragedy to a comedy or which of Molière’s plays she preferred. His enthusiasm was catching and Fantine felt a warm glow of delight at finally being able to share all those fond memories. He even liked to hear about everything she disliked, even though she had not seen any play for a long time and could sometimes only half remember why an ending disappointed her. He listened to her opinions as if they meant something, as if they came from his fellow students and not a seamstress who could not even read enough to read the play reviews. Or perhaps he valued her opinions more than those of his fellow students, because he frequently compared her experience to those of his student friends who – according to him – called themselves writers but were not worthy of the title. He was quite certain she had better taste.

After supper, Cosette had to take a nap, as a compromise to be allowed to stay up longer in the long summer night. While Cosette was dragging her feet to the little cot next to Fantine’s bed, Fantine suddenly realised that would leave her alone with Bahorel. Without Cosette’s chatter and need for attention, she feared he might be different. But as soon as she returned from making sure Cosette was actually abed, he stretched his arms and begged to be of use to her.

“I beg of you, Madame Fantine, any employment will do. I am not used to sit about all day. If you cannot put me to work I will go and bother the inn’s cook. In my desperation, I will even peel potatoes. If I wanted to sit about and do nothing, I would have gone to my lectures! Please, let me be of service to my newest friends, to repay you for saving me from loneliness and boredom.”

Fantine knew she could not possibly put a gentleman to work, but he threatened to make up his own employment if she did not give him anything useful to do. And it would be a great help. A man came in from the village once a month to do some heavy maintenance work on the orders of Monsieur Tholomyès Père. Felix had to give him a sum of money to not go around telling tales. And a little grudging help once a month was far too little. Fantine shifted well for herself, but life would be much easier the coming weeks if she had command of Bahorel’s strength for an hour or two today.

He fetched her water from the well, singing a silly song that he told her was a tradition in his childhood home. If you sang it properly, the water would taste sweeter. He had a deep singing voice and his words rang out pleasantly in the courtyard. When Cosette slept, Fantine often thought the house was empty and devoid of life. Bahorel chased away the emptiness and filled it up with gaiety and cheerful nonsense.

He noticed that the woodstack next to the kitchen hearth was running low and immediately offered to get her some more. When he saw how low the woodpile in the courtyard had gotten, he cheerfully asked for an axe. Fantine looked on dubiously, but he was already stripping off his coat.

“I see you doubting me, Madame Fantine, but my time in Paris has not made me weak.”

Fantine could see that. He had picked up a too large block of wood in one hand and accepted the axe she handed him in the other.

“Do not worry, my mother always sent me out to chop wood to get rid of restless energy when I was a boy. I was a rather restless child,” He looked up at her with a rueful expression, “I am afraid I was rather a trial upon her patience.”

Woodchopping, it seemed, also had an accompanying song, but Bahorel refrained from singing it ‘to spare her gentle ears’. Fantine thought privately that it could be no worse than she was used to hearing as a girl nobody noticed. The language used in the first neighbourhood in Paris she had lived in until Felix paid for an apartment in a street he wouldn’t mind visiting hadn’t been very seemly either.

After only a few swings of the axe, Bahorel stopped and looked at her with a strange expression. She hardly thought his face could be read from the exertion, so it had to be the beginning of a blush. Bashfulness did not suit him. He looked a bit shifty. For a moment, Fantine wondered how long she could let him stew in his uncertainty. This surprised her. She wasn’t generally one to tease. She decided to take pity on him instead.

“Shall I leave you to it then?”

“No,” he replied rather hastily, “it’s just that waistcoats really aren’t made for manual labour. But I also wouldn’t want to insult you by going about all _deshabillé_.”

He ran a hand through his hair awkwardly.

“I think,” said Fantine slowly, smiling up at him, “since you are kindly coming to my assistance, you may be excused if you want to take off your waistcoat. It would be a shame if you tore it after all.”

He brightened up immediately. “Exactly! I know it’s not very dashing behaviour, looking after one’s clothes properly, but I know how much trouble the tailor and seamstresses go through to make them and I hate to spoil them needlessly.”

 Something in the way he said it made Fantine think there were certain occasion where Bahorel considered the destruction of clothes thoroughly necessary. Visions of what those occasions might be flashed before her eyes before she could push them down. Bahorel had carefully unbuttoned his waistcoat and Fantine took it from his hand to inspect the embroidery. It had a very charming border of grapevines curling around the many buttons. Divested of the need to be careful, Bahorel started chopping in earnest. Fantine found she quite liked the scandal of having a man in his shirtsleeves in her courtyard. She generally didn’t like shirtsleeves much, having stitched far too many in her time. Seeing one stretched out over Bahorel’s broad shoulders made her appreciate them much more. Fantine had the feeling that if she would come closer, she’d find the chestpiece of his shirt lovingly stitched in the shape of a heart. Bahorel talked often and fondly of his mother and father, of his sisters, his aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, of a life overflowing with love. He was anchored by an entire family and to Fantine, who had only herself until she had Cosette, it sounded like a wonderful dream.

Fantine went to wake Cosette while Bahorel finished his pile, stacking it neatly. Before he could start to talk of leaving, she invited him back into the kitchen. They drank the last of the milk while Cosette played on the ground, carefully wrapped in Fantine’s too large apron to save her dress from the soot.

Fantine started looking around at what she could possibly serve him for dinner. They had no meat and only a little cheese and there was nothing to turn that into something she could serve a guest. Before she could start fretting about how far she could make the eggs from Cosette’s faithful chickens stretch, Bahorel excused himself gallantly. He had imposed on her long enough and he couldn’t possibly offend his _hôtesse_ by bespeaking a dinner and then not turning up to eat it. He retrieved his cloak and hat, which lay forgotten in the parlour, and with a wink he pressed the remaining caramels in her hand out of Cosette’s sight. With another broad smile he made them a deep bow, turned smartly, and walked away from them. Cosette immediately ran after him, affronted that that was all the goodbye she got. With her most pathetic pout, she held out her arms to be picked up. Bahorel gave in immediately and twirled her around in a proper goodbye. Fantine got her daughter deposited in her arms and then another bow, and then he was gone.

The vague feeling that perhaps she would have liked a proper goodbye too made Fantine think. Bahorel had carefully refrained from touching her. Perhaps it was because he was conscious of being so much larger and stronger than she was and he was holding back so as not to frighten her. He had not approached them until Cosette had drawn him in and, except to bow over her hand, he had not touched Fantine at all. He had been very careful not to reach out until Cosette had reached out first. That was probably why Cosette had warmed up to him so soon, demanding to be picked up and carried around. And perhaps that too was why Fantine only got a bow, only playful words but carefully no touch. Perhaps if she reached out first, he would extend that same friendly affection that was present in his voice to his behaviour towards her too.

That night, after Cosette had said her prayers, she asked her mother whether M’sieur Bahorel could come and play tomorrow too. Fantine found herself wishing that were a possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I hover awkwardly on the road to catch the neighbour’s wifi to research whether caramels where a thing in 17th century France? Yes, yes I did.  
> The ladies in Italy who can tell stories in lace is a reference to the Stravaganza series, which I loved as a child.  
> The chest or breastpiece of a shirt is a piece of fabric sewn on to stop the shirt from tearing at the collar. According to the tailor’s guide I used to make my pair, it’s supposed to be stitched in a heart-shape, but I can’t believe everyone went to that trouble.  
> Since there’s a lot of new faces here (Hi! I’m so happy to see you!), you can find me on tumblr under the name badassindistress. Come talk to me about daring waistcoats and how Fantine deserved better!  
> You may have noticed how the chapter count went up from 2 to 4. Fantine had a lot more to say than I thought, and I needed to develop the relationship first before plotpoints hit. So the next chapter will be from Bahorel’s point of view and contain actual plot and the conclusion of this story. After that there will be an epilogue from Fantine’s pov, which will hopefully wrap up this story. (This was supposed to be a short little thing, if you can believe it.)  
> Please let me know what you thought, comments make me so very happy!  
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Letters, Resolutions and Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel can't stop himself from going back to Fantine, Fantine can't stop smiling at him and Cosette doesn't want to stop hiding in the big wardrobe...

She liked the theatre. She had a smile like clouds had suddenly revealed the sun, an adorable daughter she raised on her own and _she_ _loved the theatre._ This was more than Bahorel could bear. What he wouldn’t give to have met her in Paris. What he wouldn’t give to be able to punch the man who kept her here. Dress her in silk, but leave her without even a maid for company? The kitchen garden was barren, except for the things that had been planted say, seven months ago. About the time Fantine had not heard of the plays anymore, if he had to guess. Did she chop the wood herself too? Did she keep the place and take the time to embroider rosebuds on Cosette’s dress? Bahorel could hardly comprehend the kind of strength Fantine had command of, to carry on cheerfully while carrying all those burdens. Cosette did not even seem to know how extraordinary their situation was. She was such a rosy, happy child, not at all aware how much her mother must move heaven and earth to keep her happy.

The entire way back and throughout his entire evening meal, Bahorel was silent in baffled admiration. Such strength of character! Bahorel was nearly convinced he had found all graces in one woman. And she liked him enough to allow him to bask in her presence for an entire day. He had tried valiantly not to let his admiration show. Admiration was of no use to her, while with his aid and his friendship he could at least attempt to lighten her burdens. But sometimes he could not help it. She was so very beautiful, and friendly too, as soon as Cosette had decided she liked him. And though he tried not to, he could not keep from praising her a little. She had such natural taste! She had picked out, without knowing the politics behind it, exactly which plays had had their ending changed to pander to the Court.  She made elegant comparisons based on natural emotion that his playwright friends would never have thought of. Bahorel wished he could read her the latest novels, just to hear her thoughts. She seemed to enjoy talking of the theatre too. There was often something melancholy about her, a sort of wan sadness. Bahorel could not stop himself from talking nonsense until she smiled again. And every time she did it truly was as if clouds had moved away from the sun itself. Bahorel could bask in that smile for ages.

He sat in his room silently for a long time, trying to work out what was the right thing to do. What he’d prefer to do was go back to Paris, find this “Felix” and call him out for the crime of daring to neglect Cosette. But he couldn’t. He had no right. And Fantine wouldn’t thank him for it. She seemed to love this man, little as she spoke of him. Or she seemed to believe he truly loved her. As if keeping her here was an act of love!

Likewise, he could not ask them to come with him. Cosette needed a secure home, not the lodgings of a perpetual student. But how could he go on his merry way, knowing Fantine was here without a soul to care for her? His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door. In came the stable boy, with a folded letter and an apologetic expression. He would not have disturbed M’sieur while he was resting, of course, were it not that an hour ago they had received a letter and finding its addressee was beyond them. Since the gentleman was a student, could he help them find who to deliver it to? Bahorel relished the distraction from his problems, but alas, a glance at the address solved the mystery. The direction was merely ‘to my annoying little brother’, written in his sister’s hasty handwriting.

_“To my annoying little Brother:_

_Dearest Mort-Aux-Injustice,_ (She persisted in calling him by his given name instead of by his last name like everybody else, even though she herself had forgone her given name in favour of one more suited to love letters.)

_Heard from Maman she turned you away and that P’tit Jean sent you on to the Four Fools. And for that you left Paris? Better come to mine, to tell me of all your scandalous exploits. If you can manage not to die of boredom before then I’ll send a carriage Monday morning. It’ll have to be the landau, I think. Be sure to tell every gentleman you encounter exactly where you got it. Now be sure not to frighten any villagers with your shocking scarlet ideals darling, and see you soon._

_With Love,_

_Élodie_

_P.S. Nicolas is very grateful you’ll be here, most of my ladies are at home so I think he’s feeling a tad overwhelmed by the copious female company. Be sure to talk to him about shooting or disappointing expectations or other masculine endeavours like that._

The pleasure Bahorel felt at being able to soon tease his sister in person again was immediately overshadowed by the realisation that he would have to leave Fantine. The thought was unbearable. Leaving friends behind was never pleasant, but it had never made him recoil in pained horror. He feared his heart might be engaged. If only his honour was too. He’d give anything to have the right to ask to take care of them. If there were ever a person who deserved a flick on the nose with a sharp sword, this Felix would be him. There were plenty of dark woods were an honest duel could be fought without the interference of the law…

He readied himself for bed, still mulling everything over. He was never so indecisive. ‘Brash’ might have been his second name, had his mother not thought Mort– Aux– Injustice was enough to saddle a child with. But the problem was that every time he thought of Fantine, how she smiled at his songs, how she hid a giggle at his claims that the Dauphine wore figured cotton, he felt warm all over. A single thought of her clever hands lovingly embroidering a dress Cosette will grow out of in a year was enough for a smile to overtake his face without his say-so. He fell on his bed, cravat only half untied, and stared at the ceiling.

He was quite probably in love with Fantine. Bahorel let out a deep sigh. It could just be infatuation, of course. But he had been infatuated before. Then, he thought of small hands and soft skin, enticing smiles. Not about the endurance necessary to survive a winter when there was nobody to help chop the wood. Of course she did have lovely hands. And the most delightful smile. And her skin would probably be as soft as silk and warm as the sun. But he could not know for certain, because she had not touched him. He had kept his distance, to make sure she knew he came as a friend, with no untoward attentions. She seemed to appreciate him. He was quite sure she had looked when he had taken of his waistcoat. She had looked, he was certain, and looked with a sort of satisfied glow. Or perhaps that had merely been for the work he was doing. But maybe she had looked, and liked. She must have liked him, at least a little. She let him stay all day, after all. And it couldn’t just have been because Cosette liked him.

Cosette was such a wonderful, imaginative child. He wondered what wonderful novels she would write, were she able too. What novels would Fantine like? He suspected she could not read much, but her opinions on the theatre were so heartfelt and precise, she must like novels too, if she had the opportunity. Would she like it if he read to her? He could see himself spending hours with her, sitting close by the fire when evening falls, reading until his voice was hoarse.  The firelight glinting off Fantine’s hair and that smile playing on her lips. And then when his voice gave out, he’d spend the night listening to her opinions on the piece. Watch her grow animated an talk with her hands until her gown swept. Or perhaps it’d be the end of an evening, and she’d have her hair loose and drying in front of the fire. Her hair must be a waterfall of gold when loosened from its chignon. He’d love to brush it for her, someday, and perhaps kiss her neck when it was revealed. And receive a kiss in return for his labours. And with visions as impossible as they were lovely, Bahorel fell asleep.

~*~

The next morning he woke only just in time for breakfast. He spent it learning more about the neighbourhood. Careful inquiry taught him that the lodge was the second house in the neighbourhood, only preceded in importance by the Seigneur of the overhasty muskets. The lodge was owned by a Monsieur and Madame Tholomyès and frequently visited by their son, Felix. Bahorel had an inkling he might have seen the man around the law buildings–  while Bahorel was swiftly escaping from the premises, of course. A snivelling, inferior man with too much money and a reputation of heartless gaiety. He was several years older than Bahorel and looked to be a dozen years more aged. He looked an awful fright too, in ridiculous trousers of a foreign cut that did not suit him at all. This man was not even a little worthy of being in Fantine’s life. Bahorel could only wonder by what lies or artifice he won Fantine’s love. But he had won it and there was nothing Bahorel could do about it. That was all the information he could get on the Tholomyès family. The talk around the table turned to cock-fighting, as there was a new guest come this way specifically to try his new rooster. Bahorel turned his attention inward again. What was he to do?

He had not been able to stop himself from taking a little extra care when dressing that morning. He had picked a fine pair of doeskin breeches and a waistcoat embroidered with a lock and key pattern. Just because he liked to dress well, not because Fantine had admired the grapevine motif yesterday. He had taken his leave yesterday and there was no need to return. He had no more caramels to share, he had not been invited back and there really was no reason to barge in on them again. There was nothing he could do and his foolish heart might lead him to say unwelcome things. To distract himself from temptation he decided to visit his horse in the stables. Halfway through brushing the coat of the restless animal he sighed and stopped lying to himself. His horse needed the exercise and there was simply no way he wouldn’t steer it past Fantine’s doorstep. He had better give in now and plan for the occasion. Perhaps Cosette would like a ride? And even if he could not go and pledge his troth, he could go and pledge his aid. The knowledge that she had friends she could rely on, if she ever so wished, could at least give Fantine the option of escape, should she wish it. He asked the cook for some provisions for his trip and set off with a lighter heart.

~*~

Bahorel went up to the house pleasantly optimistic about his welcome. He left his horse tied to a tree to graze her fill. His sound use of the doorknocker had no effect and he was momentarily unsure of what to do. He soon decided that leading his horse to the stable wouldn’t be too big of an imposition. It did the trick. Fantine was in the kitchen garden, watering the small corner of plants she grew. She looked up in surprise  when she heard him coming, but seemed sincerely gratified to see him. She even came over to offer him her hand to shake. He was still wearing his riding gloves, but the feeling of her small hand in his was still enough to make his chest feel warm.

“Good morning, Bahorel,” she said, and his name on her lips said in such a sweet manner made him realise how much he would need to keep hold of himself. Beaming like a fool every time she said his name could not be called subtlety. If he kept gazing at her like a lovestruck fool she’d certainly realise something was amiss.

“Good morrow, Madame Fantine. My horse needed exercise and was drawn here. Or perhaps that was me. In any case, I thought Cosette might like a ride?”

There, if he said it in jest he could at least speak of his feelings in some way. Speaking of love would be impossible, but surely he could show his fondness? Concealing his feelings completely would be a crime, as well as impossible.

“I’m afraid Cosette has had a rather difficult morning. Some days are like that. I believe she’s hiding in the big wardrobe right now. A ride might cheer her up, or upset her further.”

Fantine looked up at him apologetically. Bahorel was not quite prepared for a tête-a-tête so soon. He smiled, nonetheless.

“That’s often the way with small children, isn’t it?. No matter. The offer stands. And in any case, it was mostly an excuse to visit here again. I can’t abide leaving my friends and since I’m forced to stay here another day I thought I might put off the farewell a little longer.”

He tried to adopt an appropriately coaxing expression to convince Fantine to let him in once more. The effect was lost on her, as she had already taken him by the wrist to gently lead him inside. He took off his hat and cloak in a bit of a daze. That really happened, hadn’t it? She’d just pulled him along, led him inside before he could even ask. He hid his foolish expression by taking off his gloves, carefully looking away. His downturned grin must be idiotic, but who wouldn’t feel foolish at a moment like this? Here was his proof. She liked him enough to pull him inside, to take his hand as if it was no big thing. As if it wasn’t the second time in five minutes she had taken his hand. This was not just wishful imagination. Yesterday she had been kind, amiable and welcoming, but she had kept a distance between them. He was prepared to continue in that manner today, and she had just broken his resolution in a single touch. He had wondered – or feared–  that she might be intimidated by him, a strange man stumbling upon her all alone. How glad he was he was wrong. She’d led him away as if he was a meek little lamb. Perhaps it was just that she felt he would indeed follow her everywhere. This was more than he could have hoped for.

Bahorel found himself being put to work soon after his arrival, shifting furniture to clear the way for Fantine’s dusting. He had never enjoyed housekeeping more. There was a bit of cobweb hanging form Fantine’s hair, fluttering behind her like a veil. And she smiled and laughed at Bahorel and asked after his family until he was unable to do anything but laugh and talk of his life. Once, while he was rehanging a painting he was sure she was looking at his breeches. It was probably professional interest, but still. They were very fine breeches after all.

This time Bahorel had come better prepared, having begged enough food off the cook to share. The ate sitting closely side by side. The tastiest morsels were left for Cosette, for when she came back from her self-imposed exile.

Bahorel was very glad that, no matter how struck he was with how the sunlight played over Fantine’s face, he never lost track of the conversation. Fantine was telling him of the foibles of the old farmer she had worked for before coming to Paris. Apparently he liked cows better than farmhands and didn’t feel the need to remember people’s names, calling them by the names of his animals instead. Fantine’s soft delivery only made the story more hilarious. Bahorel felt such a glow of happiness, contentment and thoroughly misplaced pride. He had not grounds to feel pride that Fantine could count humour among her innumerable graces and yet he was. So fiercely proud of a woman he had only just met. Because after the life she had led, she could still laugh and tell stories. She had survived a life full of hardships, and lived to tell silly tales. He was so proud. Proud and so, so happy. His happiness would have to be shared, or he would burst.

“Fantine,” he started, turning towards her, “you do know I was in earnest when I offered you my friendship? You have it, and any aid I can give you.”

He dearly wished to take up her hand, but words would have to do for now. She was smiling at him with a slight, puzzled expression. He was not explaining his case very well.

“I know you stay here for that–  that man you love. But if you have to be here alone, you must at least know I would do anything in my power to help you. I am at your command.”

Fantine did not move or answer. And yet he knew she understood what he meant to say. What he could not say. And then, suddenly, she smiled.

“Felix and I will marry as soon as he can get his father’s approval. But I would be honoured to have your friendship. Your company these past two days has made me very happy.”

It seemed as if she would take up his hand. She didn’t. But Bahorel could hardly mourn it, because he had made her happy. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him. She looked so beautiful, with her dirty apron and her golden hair, that he had to divert her attention, or else he’d burst forth with all his feelings.

“So now I have pledged myself to be your loyal soldier, have you any commands for me? Banish spiders? Fight your neighbour for shooting across your borders?”

 She let out a surprised giggle.

“Oh no, the Seigneur is a kind old man. He doesn’t like Felix much, but he’s just afraid of strangers. He is always polite to me, even though he knows my situation.” She smiled fondly. “But there is something you can do for me. Wait here if you please.”

And with a bright smile thrown over her shoulder she left the room. As soon as the door closed behind her, Bahorel jumped up to relieve some of his excitement. He couldn’t possibly sit still anymore. He paced the room, danced with the air and laughed at nothing. She would be honoured to be his friend! He could be of service to her, visit her whenever possible and send her gifts! He could make sure she never felt alone. Surely that counted as a friend’s office? Perhaps he could pay for one of Élodie’s maid-servant friends to come work for Fantine, so she had a friend in the house as well as someone to help her. He spun around, unable to express his happiness any other way. He fell down on his seat again just in time for Fantine’s return. She carried in her hands a letter.

“I have received a letter, yesterday evening. If you are truly eager to be of service to me, you might perhaps read it out to me? I would not ask, but it is Felix who sent it and I think it might announce a visit. I would wait to visit the Seigneur to have him read it, but you are here now and that is vastly more pleasant.”

She was glowing from happiness. A letter from her love and devotion from her friend. Selfishly, he wished that Tholomyès would forget all about her. But her happiness was worth more than his gratification. She was happy to receive his letters and so he would be happy to read them out to her.

A single glance at the note – for it could hardly be called a letter–  proved that Fantine was wrong to be happy to receive it.

It said, in disgustingly light and humorous terms:

“ _Father wants to take a business partner hunting. You’d best make yourselves scarce for a few weeks.”_

A post-scriptum admonished Fantine to not go and give her smiles to other men. Bahorel had to fight his own horror, but read the full thing out loud.

Fantine’s distress was immediate, disbelief making the way for horror.

“He does not say, ‘Come to Paris’?”

Bahorel was sorry to say he did not. For a moment, he wished that Felix Tholomyès had indeed been the worthy man Fantine believed him to be. Bahorel’s heart was breaking in symphony with Fantine’s own.

“But where can we go? Felix didn’t like for us to go visiting– ” Bahorel would do anything to wipe the despair of her face. “–even those few kind people who did not mind that we could not yet be married. He said it was different here than in Paris. He said people would not take it well...”

“Fantine,” Bahorel could not stop himself from offering her his hand, which she grasped desperately, “Why do you stay with this man? How can one who would callously send you away deserve your devotion?”

“No, you misunderstand. He has promised me we can marry, as soon as he gets his parents approbation.”

She sank down on her seat, letter once more clutched in her hand.

“He has not been here for months. He did not think of Cosette before and he has not thought of her now. I cannot just leave.” Tears gleamed in her eyes, but did not fall.

“I think he truly does not love her. His own daughter. How can he not love her, Bahorel?”

Bahorel felt his resolve stiffen. He would do anything to stop Fantine’s pain. Anything to resolve this horrible situation.

“Fantine. Tomorrow morning, my sister will send a carriage to convey me to her house. There will be more than enough space to take you, your daughter and everything you feel that cretin owes you.”

“But where could we go? Tholomyès may not love Cosette as I do, but he does lend her his protection. In the city, I could work. But among strangers in the country?”

Bahorel could nearly cry with relief that he could at least provide a solution to that problem.

“My sister specialises in helping women provide for their own future. She teaches them to read, accounting and things of that sort. I would of course offer the both of you my protection, but I feel you might prefer to not rely on another person to secure your future.”

Fantine stood up. She sat down again. She sat in silence for a long time. Bahorel could only look on and wish he could offer her support. He’d give anything to be able to lend her his strength, or even be allowed to hold her hand. She turned to him again.

“You are certain? That your sister will help me find employment?”

Bahorel could not help but smile. Élodie would love Fantine.

“She would come to your aid even without my intervention. She has made it her life’s goal to help other women gain their independence and she will certainly do the same for you.”

He felt a light pressure on his hand. Fantine had stolen her hands into his. His smile grew wider.

“I will swear on my mother that you will not be deserted again,” Bahorel spoke solemnly. Fantine pressed his hands and looked up into his eyes, determination dawning on her face.

“Very well then. For Cosette’s future, we will go.”

~*~

 

Bahorel spent the rest of the day playing with Cosette while Fantine packed for their flight to freedom. He thought about suggesting that Fantine take some of the paintings or the kitchen silver, but he thought her loyalty would not stand for that. She did however, confide in him that she planned to take everything he had given to her. She would erase her presence from the house. If Tholomyès did not appreciate her she would make it so he would not have to deal with anything of hers anymore. Her justified anger was the most entrancing thing Bahorel had seen in a long time.

Cosette had come down pleased to see him and delighted that he promised to spend the afternoon with her. Bahorel found them some nicely shaped sticks and initiated her in the art of the honourable duel. He died tragically several times, but at the end of the lesson Cosette felt herself equal to taking on every evil man in Paris. With Cosette giggling at his tragic death scenes and Fantine smiling at him across the courtyard, Bahorel felt quite the same.

The preparations all went smoothly, until Cosette went feed her chickens. Fantine looked after her in alarm.

“The chickens! How could we ever bring them on our journey? We cannot leave them behind, it would break Cosette’s heart!”

Leaving them behind surely would not do. The chickens were Cosette’s darlings and she must not be deprived of them. But having them run amok in the carriage was equally impossible. How did people normally transport chickens? They both agreed that the normal way would be strung up by their feet, which would not do. They both sat down in deep thought. Suddenly, Bahorel jumped up, having found the solution.

“Cockfighting, Fantine! The fellow at the inn had brought his new rooster quite a long way. They have these woven cages, to keep their roosters safe during the journey. What works for the rooster must work for the hen. I need only go to the inn and persuade him to sell his cage to me.”

Fantine tried to debate him on the expense, but he had already run to his horse, hoping to catch the young man before he left for the evening’s entertainment. He soon returned, proudly bearing Marie- Hélène and Hélène-Marie’s new travelling home.

~*~

When the carriage came early the next morning, Bahorel found himself with little Cosette sagging against him in her sleep. He could not stop smiling at Fantine who was bedecked in every bauble Tholomyès had ever given her.

Fantine smoothed down Cosette’s hair. She looked up at Bahorel, a smile in her eyes and steel in her spine.

“Felix Tholomyès robbed me of my innocence and gave me lies in return, but he gave me Cosette, too. For that I am grateful. But not enough to feel sorry.”

Bahorel’s smile grew at hearing her speak of him in such distant tones.

“What for? Surely not for preventing him from neglecting you?”

Fantine’s smile grew. “No. For selling the entire contents of his father’s wine-cellar to the Seigneur.” She patted the pocket hidden under her hoops.

“If we are thrifty, Cosette and I can live off this for years. Or perhaps I’ll save it for the dowry he ought to have given her. Let him explain _that_ to his parents.”

Fantine’s smile was sharp, but her laugh sounded like pearls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! This chapter was about 6 times as long as I anticipated, hence the long wait. The only thing that is left is for Fantine to get the last word in an epilogue. Be sure to tell me if there's something from this story you'd still like to see, since the epilogue isn't quite finished yet. No duels have or will happen, sadly, but there's one more piece of comeuppance in store for Tholomyes.
> 
> Thanks to Freckle for betaing again, you're the best sis!  
> I want to thank all of you who have commented on this story, each one made me smile so much.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Educations, Revelations and Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final epilogue wherein everyone gets what they deserve

**Epilogue:**

The next few days, Fantine spent her time in Élodie’s parlour, teaching Marie-Jeanne the finer points of embroidery. In the mornings Élodie gathered her circle of ladies to do some reading and letter-writing. Villagers sometimes came by to have news written down or read out and Fantine was glad to see she was not the only one with a weak grasp of the written word among the women. Privately, she resolved to practice more. Last night, Bahorel read them one of his favourite plays. He left the volume lying on the table and as soon as she would have a moment to herself, Fantine would take it up again. With his voice speaking the lines still running through her mind, she would surely be able to pick out the words more easily.

This new life of freedom turned out to be not so different from the life she had known before, but the fact that every decision was hers to make was a wonderful sort of happiness. Fantine wondered if, as a newly liberated woman who took what she wanted, she might keep Bahorel as well. Cosette had already grown attached to him and Fantine would not deny her daughter, or herself, the pleasure of his company. A lifetime of supporting herself with spinning, weaving, reading and writing sounded much more pleasant if she could have Bahorel there, telling wild tales and spinning outrageous lies just to amuse her.

Cosette was happy too. Not only in the company of her chickens, but now also with some other children to share her treasures with. She was enchanted with Élodie and Nicolas’ baby and wanted nothing more than to sit by him and tell him wild stories. It would be a shame to tear her away from her new friends just yet.

Élodie had told Fantine of a friend of hers, who had married the owner of a printshop. They were always looking for ladies to stitch their papers together. But Fantine had decided to stay here, at least for the summer. She was happy here. Last night, before she went to bed, Cosette told her mother that when he was old enough, she’d teach the baby to duel as Bahorel had taught her. It had filled Fantine with such happiness that she could do nothing but smile and hold her child to her to hide the tears in her eyes.

~*~

The morning’s lesson had been finished, Cosette had been quizzed on her letters and she was once more free to resume standing guard over Élodie’s baby boy. The baby was being fussy, but for the past hour, Cosette had sat by the crib and sung for him whenever he started crying. Fantine was certain Bahorel was to blame for the songs though. Before she met him, Cosette absolutely did not know the word “veto”. Fantine felt she ought to be displeased that Bahorel was teaching her daughter the songs of political malcontents, but he’d probably smile that cheeky smile that makes her heart beat faster and say that knowledge was never wasted. And there was no real harm done, since Cosette only remembered half the melody and had changed the lyrics to be about her chickens.

Content in the knowledge that Cosette was happily employed for the foreseeable future, Fantine pressed a kiss to Cosette’s forehead and received a wet kiss on her cheek in return. She left the room while Cosette started to explain in great detail to the baby how Victor and the Hélène sisters liked their new house, which in her tale had grown several towers as well as a moat.

Downstairs there was a bustle, as there always was. Élodie and Marie-Jeanne and Jeanne were in the still-room, teaching Lisette, Jeanne’s granddaughter who had just turned fourteen, their secrets. Élodie’s husband was in the library, along with Victoire, who he was teaching Latin. Victoire’s main ambition in life had always been to be a doctor, but for at present she had settled for making herself indispensable to a doctor instead. Learning the basics of Latin was the next step in her campaign to take over Doctor Perrier’s life. Fantine suspected that before long he’ll propose marriage to her, just to make sure she’d never leave him again.

Fantine went outside, just to escape the noise for a bit. After being so long alone, it was a shock to be constantly around people again. She was so much happier with so many friends around her, but she still needed to adjust to the lack of solitude. Luckily, there was a bench just out of view from the house that provided a spot in the shade, with dappled sunlight coming through the leaves. For the past few days, Fantine has spent some time each day sitting there, quietly thinking over her life and her decisions with silent contentment.

When she got to the bench in question, however, Fantine found the seat already occupied. Bahorel lay there, stretched out on his back, feet pulled up on the sandstone. His rolled up coat served as a head-cushion, a letter resting on his knees. He was laughing to himself over the contents of it. Fantine could not help but laugh with him. He looked so silly, draped on a stone bench like it was a down mattress. He looked up at her, eyes sparkling.

“Fantine! You have found me. And here I though I had properly concealed myself. And perfect timing too, because this letter is very amusing and I was dying to share it with someone.” He waved the letter at her.

She sat down next to him as soon as he left her enough space to do so. He read her bits of the letter out loud, laughing heartily at the scrapes his Parisian friends had got into, but Fantine could not attend. Here she was, in the sun, with her daughter happy and the prospect of employments stitching books and leaflets in Paris when she wanted it. She was free to make her own choices. Free to befriend who she liked. The weight of her cares had suddenly lightened and it made her feel wild, elated and reckless. Fantine found herself laughing wildly.

Bahorel looked up in surprise, still in the middle of a tragedy a friend’s lost hat. In an impulse Fantine put her arms around his neck and stifled her giggles against his shoulder. The letter fluttered to the ground. After a while, she felt his arm pull around her waist. Fantine pressed in closer, hiding her face against his neck, and tried to calm her racing heart. With her cheek against his neck, she could feel his pulse quicken too. She pulled away a little, to better look him in the eye.

He had such a good, kind face, quick to smile and joke, but just as ready to fight for what he thought was right. She looked him in the eye, but did not take her arms from around his neck. If she moved any closer, she’d be sitting on his lap. The idea was quite an attractive notion, actually. Bahorel’s smile was soft and bright like sunrise. Fantine wanted to get closer. To chase that exhilarating feeling she got whenever he grinned at her. To feel what it would feel like to be folded in his arms properly. She wanted to know what it would feel like to be pulled into his arms. And yet, he was merely looking at her. His arms were around her waist and he was only looking and waiting.

“Bahorel,” she said, exasperation in her voice mostly outshone by her happiness, “what are you doing?”

He smiled that cheeky grin. This close it was even more exasperating.

“Anticipating happiness,” he replied, grin growing broader. “And awaiting further orders.”

Fantine closed her eyes. She could not believe him. She opened her eyes again.

“Bahorel?”

“Yes, Fantine?”

“Would you like to kiss me now?”

“Fantine, nothing could make me happier, because I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love with you. I apologise for the inconvenience.”

Fantine’s heart sang and her pulse raced, but he was still not kissing her. Just holding her close and beaming at her, completely ignoring her frustrations. Of course, she did know already he was terrible at following orders. So Fantine decided to take matters into her own hands, and kissed him soundly.

Fantine was unsuccessful at kissing the cheeky grin off his face, but it had taken on a more dazed edge. But then she had to kiss him again, just to see his smile change again. And then again, because he looked so happy. And again because she felt like the light would burst out of her if she didn’t.

She sat on his lap, playing with the lace on his cravat, catching her breath. His arm was around her waist, his other hand in her hair. Her fichu had become unknotted and now he was alternating staring in her eyes and pressing kisses to her neck.

“Bahorel?” Fantine asked at length, winding his curls around her fingers, “Do you really love me?”

He looked up sharply, face bunched up in exaggerated affront. “Am I really in love with you?” he said, the outrage in his voice belied by the tender stroke of his fingers on her neck. “Am I really in love with you?” he repeated, gathering steam. “Fantine, have I not communicated my feelings clearly enough? Let me elaborate. Not only have I fallen so thoroughly in love with you that I would propose on the spot if I thought you’d have me, so in love am I that I cannot think clearly anymore! You laugh at me, but this morning when I was answering my letters all my pens turned traitors and would only write your praises.”

Fantine’s expression must have displayed the incredulity she felt at the idea of a speechless Bahorel.

“Again, you don’t believe me,” Bahorel pouted, “but I have insurmountable proof. In my room at this moment is a document that began as my accounts and ends in a declaration of love. That is what I mean when I say I can’t think clearly. It means that an account of the cost of my new coat turned into a line of poetry and I cannot even recall how.” He looked soulful and tortured and very much in need of another kiss.

“What kind of poetry,” Fantine asked instead. The delight she felt in teasing Bahorel and knowing it would only make him laugh was ever increasing. Bahorel tried to hide his face in her neck and then to distract her with a kiss, but Fantine held firm.

“If the poetry is to be a proof of love, you ought to produce it, Monsieur Bahorel.”

He heaved a deep sigh.

“I believe,” he started, looking down to smooth her skirts to avoid looking her in the eye, “that the first line was ‘I just want to kiss her until her smiles bloom like flowers’. There, will that do?”

He was still occupied in draping her skirts over both their knees and laying the ruffles flat. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks. It was quite endearing. Fantine kissed his cheek, just were the flush was rising, to see his bashful smile grow again.

“All I see is proof that you are besotted with me.”

All levity fled from his face.

“Fantine, my heart belongs to you. You may do with it as you wish. I was in earnest when I pledged you my service. If all I can do is be a friend to you, I’ll content myself with that.”

Fantine stroked her thumb over his cheek. Seriousness suited him as well as silliness, but she preferred to make him smile.

“I don’t think I want to marry you. At least not yet,” she said apologetically.

“Of course, no, I understand. But we are both rational creatures and we could come to an understanding? You have only just won your freedom and I couldn’t expect you to give it up again so soon. But perhaps, if you are indeed going to Paris again, I might court you? I will even try respectability for you. Might that be agreeable?”

To think of a future where she could be in her dear Paris, with her daughter by her side and perfect liberty to do as she pleased. And then Bahorel at her side too, to call on her and court her, to be free to dance and laugh with him. It would be nearly too perfect a happiness. Fantine smiled and rested her head against his, overcome with emotion. And then she sat up, smiling mischievously.

“Only if your bring me more caramels,” Fantine said, and proceeded to kiss his answering laugh off his lips.

~*~

A month later, Fantine was in town to call on some acquaintances and buy some ribbons for her hair. Social duties done, she turned into an alley to have a quick peek into the nearby milliner’s shop. In the alley she stumbled upon a very familiar figure. It had been so long since she’d seen him, but she was certain.

“Félix?” She could not keep the tremor out of her voice. He turned. A surprised smile spread over the face of the man she once thought she loved.

“Fantine! My little blonde, you have done well for yourself, haven’t you?” He inspected her dress, and her, in a single glance.

“Don’t worry, little minx, I don’t bear you a grudge for leaving the house to get robbed. Some miscreants stole half the valuables, but we’ll see them hanged before long. Aside from that, your departure was actually quite convenient. We all have to return to propriety sometime. Such is life.”

He had the nerve to laugh. That same kind of cheerful, gay laughter that always made him seem good-natured. He spoke of the callous abandonment of his child and he laughed.

Fantine gathered every scrap of anger she felt, every last bit of anguish she had felt at his betrayal and channelled it all into her flying fist. Her rage had been feared on the streets of M-sur-M and it ought to be feared now. Her fist on his temple robbed Tholomyès of consciousness in one blow. The sharp crack echoed through the alley. The pain in her hand felt like satisfaction. His wig landed in a puddle, exposing his bald head to the world. There. It would not repay him for every tear she cried, neglected in an empty house, but it would be enough.

Bahorel might be sad he could not fight for her honour, but he would understand this was hers to deal with. He never mentioned Tholomyès or the circumstances that lead to Fantine and Cosette living in that empty house, but Fantine was certain he longed to repay Tholomyès for the pain he gave them. He would be quite proud of her, she thought. It had been a marvellous blow. Tholomyès would probably go to the police, but since the local gendarmes were led by a Bahorel cousin, she was sure nothing would come of it. She was a respectable woman now, after all.

He could go to the local magistrate of course. But well… Fantine had just taught his daughter to embroider a delightful cursive script for her father’s handkerchiefs.

She stepped over Tholomyès’ prone body and inspected her glove. A seam had split from the force of the blow. She emerged from the alley with a serene look in her eyes, smiling at her acquaintance.  Without a care in the world, she stepped into a nearby shop to buy some thread to fix her gloves. Next she would buy some caramels, she thought. She was sure bringing Bahorel caramels for a change would make him laugh. She felt like making Bahorel smile today.

**~ The End ~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! I had this epilogue halfwritten but I just could not get it finished.  
> Please let me know what you thought! This story has been a delight to write.  
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of Regency, I thought I'd go for Rococo. I know that only like 5 other people care about this pairing, but that's what rarepair week is for, right?
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I'm enjoying stretching my more dramatic writing muscles in this story. Expect drama of the more Dangerous Liaisons kind (just with a 100% less death and abuse), possibly even a Duel if Bahorel gets his way...  
> Thanks for reading!


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